Honestly you guys, I'm pretty speechless. Over 50 favorites? Over 9000 views? Comments that actually make me tear up? I genuinely remember thinking when I started this that if I got even a little bit of a response I'd probably faint but you guys have gone above and beyond because you people are WONDERFUL and I'm so unworthy and honestly just flummoxed. Thank you, thank you, thank you to the ends of the earth and back. Your support has meant everything to me so far and I feel so lucky to have people willing to share their thoughts and time with my story. There will never be enough words!

Seriously, thank you again, I hope everyone continues to enjoy after last chapters big turn of events!


Chapter 38

"…There is the heat of Love, the pulsing rush of Longing, the lover's whisper, irresistible—magic to make the sanest man go mad."
― Homer, The Iliad


Florence checks her appearance once last time in the mirror, aware that her thoughts are somewhat fuzzier than usual under the influence of perhaps one-too-many glasses of champagne, yet she cannot shake the look on Tom's face, the blank expression of complete shock which morphed into hunger before her very eyes.

I love you.

Florence.

Christ, where had she found the confidence to say such a thing to him? And yet, it was as true as anything else she had told Tom. She did love him, she probably had since he had told her she was beautiful so many moons ago at Samhain.

"Florence, hurry up," Tallulah calls, sticking her head inside the ladies room. "I just saw Dallas headed towards the dance floor."

Wiping one last time at her eyeshadow, Florence takes Tallulah's hand and follows her out the door, allowing herself to be tugged once more in the melee of guests and family and many other variations of drunk dancers. Florence scans the crowd, searching for the distinct chocolate curls, the knifelike jaw that can only be Tom Riddle, but she comes up short.

"Oh, there's Forsythe, and he's with Dallas!" Tallulah squeals, and Florence finds herself being dragged along behind her friend before she can register what has happened. As much as she wants to support Tallulah in finagling a dance out of the man of her infatuation, she really wants to find Tom.

I love you she had told him, and he had looked at her like the sun set and rose behind her eyes. She wanted to see it again and again and again, she wanted to feel that powerful for the rest of her life.Florence, he had said in response, and only Tom could say her name like a song, could make those two syllables into a conversation.

Before Florence has time to wish Tallulah luck, she finds herself beside Forsythe as they both watch with accompanying amused smiles as Tallulah practically drags a grinning Dallas Parker out onto the dance floor, abandoning the two of them without question.

"She knows what she wants, I'll give her that," Florence says, laughing slightly as she snags a glass of champagne from a passing house elf.

"Always has. Poor Dallas better be prepared to dance with her for the rest of the night."

"Speaking of dancing," Florence says, her eyes still scanning the hall for Tom, "Has Mary Helen found you? I think I saw her earlier by the bar."

"That," Forsythe mutters, "is not funny."

"You're right, it's hilarious."

Their eyes meet, and a moment later they have both tipped their heads back in laughter. Florence had seen Mary Helen – she'd been speaking to a very disgruntled looking cousin Francis – and Florence had dipped away before she could be dragged into reliving her dance with Forsythe at the Seventh year Ilvermorny ball for the hundredth time.

"Speaking of dancing," Forsythe repeats her words, and she notes the line of humor in his voice has faded. "Shall we give it a go?" Florence glances up at him, his sage gaze earnest and endearing and suddenly she wishes she hadn't looked at him at all because she cannot see any way to reject him without being cruel.

"I've got a drink," she says, holding up her champagne. To Florence's absolute shock, he takes the flute from her grasp and tips it back into his mouth, the golden liquid disappearing down his throat in a blink.

"And now you don't," he says with a grin that dominates his entire face. "Come on, I won't bite."

Without a backup excuse, Florence acquiesces, sliding her hand into his palm. His skin is different than Tom's, worn and calloused, his hand swallowing hers with is sheer size as he cradles one palm in his own, his other hand snaking around her waist. He smiles at her again, and then they are moving, Forsythe slightly off beat but no less graceful because of it.

"I told you I wasn't a good dancer," he says, his eyes trained above her head as they spin around the room.

"I think you have it out for me," Florence teases. "Mary Helen is going to see us dancing and send an assassin after me."

"To be frank, you better hope that my mother doesn't see us dancing. She gets her hopes up every time I'm in the same room as a girl let alone dancing with one."

"My mom did the same thing to Owen before he met Radella, and it didn't help that Albion's known who he was going to marry since he was about thirteen."

"I can't wait to get him absolutely plastered at his wedding."

"Get in line," Florence challenges, and they both smile at each other briefly.

"You know," Forsythe says after a moment, the music building pleasantly behind them as the horn section slips into action. "I'm probably going to regret saying this since it took me nearly seven Firewhiskeys and a glass of champagne to work up the nerve." He pauses, and then looks down at Florence, his olive skin turning pink with embarrassment. "But you look beautiful tonight, Flor."

His childhood nickname falls from his lips seemingly without thought, and then a second later he looks away shrugging sheepishly as if horrified by this admission. Florence feels a pang throughout her abdomen – one part appreciation – one party pity.

"Thank you, Forsythe," Florence murmurs, because there is nothing else to say. Because even though she knows he means more by it, it is still a wonder to be held in the arms of a handsome young man and called beautiful – a wonder Florence does not know if she will ever be accustomed too.

"And," he continues, and Florence notes that his jaw has tensed, as if he is forcing himself to push the following words from his lungs. "I know I can be a bit of a recluse with me and my plants, but it would take a blind person not to see how happy you are with Riddle, and I'm happy for you."

He meets her gaze at the end, as if hoping she will see that he is genuine somewhere within his gaze. Florence smiles.

"I am happier than I deserve, that is for sure," Florence agrees.

"I wouldn't say that. Happy as you deserve, maybe," he offers, as if weighing the pros and cons of the phrasing.

"Are you a poet now as well as a farmer?" Florence teases, and she can feel his shoulder relax under her hand as the moment passes and they move onto safer ground.

"Picking up a side gig. Mom wants me to get out more."

The song ends and Tom approaches to find Florence and Forsythe laughing over the sight of Tallulah and Dallas Parker pressed nose to nose with no mind for the fact that the song has ended. Tom watches them with cool indifference, and Florence notes that his eyes flicker to scan Forsythe one time from head to foot before he silently offers her his hand and pulls Florence into his grasp.

"I thought you said you were coming to find me?"

He is not unkind, but she can hear the line of cold in his tone. Florence allows the hand on his shoulder to slide behind his neck so that her fingers can interlace with his hair, forcing his gaze down to hers.

"Tallulah was up to her usual trickery."

Tom nods at this, accepting her explanation, but not before pressing his lips to hers for a fleeting second, as if marking her as his while Forsythe is still in view.

"How late does this party go until?" Tom asks, lifting his arm for Florence to spin under only to pull her back, flush against his frame.

"I don't know, at least two in the morning, although Albion swears that last year he didn't get home until four."

"And if I told you I was tired of sharing you with the riff raff?"

Florence knows he is trying to maintain a light tone, but the way his fingers dig into her back she knows he really is ready to leave. To have you to himself a sinister voice in her mind whispers.

"Just because they are American does not mean they are riff raff," Florence murmurs, her lips finding the pulse in his throat despite the throng of people that still surround them.

"Mhmm."

"One more dance, and then we can go," Florence tells him, and his arms tighten around her until they are not even dancing, only swaying in place as one.

True to her word, after the following song Tom takes Florence's hand and leads her to find her family and bid them goodnight. Albion waves from out on the dance floor where he and Margaret are spinning, and Eudora informs them both that Owen has already retired for the night having had one too many drinks. Her dad gives her a smile and waves them away, and at last they are free to step into the Floo and spin through green nothingness until they reappear in the darkness that is the main parlor.

Florence allows Tom to lead her through her home, their fingers loosely interlaced as he moves a step before, his hair nearly as dark as the shadows through which they move. In her hazy state, she cannot stop her eyes from fixating upon the stray daisy petal that has caught in his curls, nor admiring the confidence with which he moves through her home, as if this too is his. When he opens the door to her room, Florence unquestioningly steps in behind him, shutting the door and sealing them in silence.

At once Tom's arms are around Florence's waist, his face buried in her neck, inhaling deeply against her skin. He holds her without moving, without exploring, as if he could melt his being into hers. Florence's hands cradle his head, content to be within his hold, desperate for the evening not to end.

"I don't think I will be able to sleep," he murmurs against her throat, his lips like dried petals against the crease of her jaw. "If I call for some tea, will you stay with me?"

"Of course," Florence assures him, her fingers raking across his scalp so that the final few petals fall from his hair. Tom leans back and offers her a lazy smile, his posture somewhat slouched. Maybe he has had more to drink than he realizes Florence thinks with a happy grin.

Tom calls for Waylon without releasing her, who returns only a few minutes later with a steaming tray with two cups, tea bags of every kind, and a box of cookies.

"Waylon, you're incredible," Florence says through a yawn. Tom, who still has not released her, presses his mouth to her temple.

"No yawning," he commands, but his voice is still relaxed. Something inside of Florence's chest burns.

I love you.

Tom attempts to move toward the table bearing the tea, but finds his actions impeded when he discovers that Florence still has a hold upon his neck.

"Tom?"

"Yes, Florence?"

His breath is warm in her ear, and she shivers.

"Will you help me take my dress off?"

He leans back slightly so that he can see her eyes, his porcelain face blank as midnight eyes bore into her own. He kisses her as an answer, light and chaste and over before it begins, and then he nods mutely.

Tom pulls her into the center of the room so that she is bathed fully in the light of the moon, circling to stand behind her as his fingers move to her zipper, working it slowly down her back. Florence sighs deeply as her ribs at last take advantage of the ability to expand, the fabric of her gown pooling at her feet. She can feel Tom's breath at her neck, his hands tracing up and down her bare back. Clothed in nothing but her panties, Florence takes Tom's proffered hand and steps to the right out of the dress. From behind her she can hear him laying the gown over the back of the chair, his dress shoes clacking upon the wooden floor.

"This too?" Tom asks, and his finger skates across the necklace he has given her. Florence shivers.

"Please."

Tom complies without further comment, delicate fingers pulling apart the clasp and then moving to lay the piece of jewelry across her dress. Without the necklace on, Florence suddenly feels infinitely more naked than before, as if some kind of shield has been removed. She can hear Tom move through the doorway into her bedroom, pausing for a moment before he returns, the heat radiating upon her back the only warning that he is near.

"Can I put this back on you?"

Florence looks over her shoulder so see him holding his ring, his face completely blank, as if he thinks that after everything they have shared in the past few hours alone she would reject him. She smiles and nods, too content to wonder what is running through his ever confounding mind. The ring slides onto her finger, comforting in its coldness, a familiar weight that she had not realized she was missing until it was returned. For such a small stone, it was quite heavy.

"May I help you?" Florence asks, turning fully to face him. She watches, her face warming considerably, as his gaze rakes up and down her form, eyes pausing momentarily to observe between her legs, her chest. Tom nods, again silent, and Florence pads across the floor to him, sliding her hands along his shoulders and slipping off his coat.

"I never told you," she murmurs while her hands work, slipping across his frame to pull his sash over his head. Tom's eyes lock upon her face, watching her with hawk-like predation as her fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. "But you were very handsome in this." Her finger taps lightly on his collarbone, as if pointing to his garments. Tom smirks, his eyes like coals in the darkness.

"Do you feel like a woman now that you are a member of society?" he asks, his head falling to the side as Florence slides his shirt from his form as well. Her fingers rake across this chest, reveling in their closeness, in their ability to map every inch of his skin.

"I feel remarkably the same."

"Was the ceremony worth it?"

"What – agreeing to participate so I could go to Hogwarts? Of course it was," Florence replies, pressing her lip to this collarbone. "Wouldn't you agree? You would not be here if I had not chosen so."

"Yes," he concedes. "I agree."

"These also?" Florence taps a finger upon his pants, and Tom shakes his head yes. Her fingers quiver slightly as she pulls at the clasp. "Shoes off," she adds, reaching for his zipper.

Tom's hands close around her arms as he toes off his dress shoes. Once they have been nudged to the side, she lets his trousers fall, leaving both of them standing before one another in nothing but their knickers – Tom's with obvious tenting.

"Tea?" He asks, returning Florence's eyes to his face, which is wicked with a smirk so sinful that Florence feels her entire face go red.

"Please."

Wandlessly Tom's clothes fold themselves while simultaneously one of the padded armchairs expands large enough for both of them. It will never cease to amaze her, Florence thinks, as she watches him reach for a bag of chamomile, how he controls magic like it is nothing more than breathing. She knows that even with seven full years of practical magical education, she could never dream of doing what Tom does without thought. The thought does not make her feel inadequate, instead, she feels a strange sense of pride that someone of his ability would choose to be here with her. How affirming.

"I have something for you," Florence blurts out without thinking. Tom turns to face her, a perfectly shaped brow rising as he once more scans her bare form with a smirk. It is unfair that he manages to look so poised sipping tea in the middle of the night in nothing more than his boxers, and yet he is some type of Adonis, statuary brought to life.

"I'm sure it has nothing to do with our current state of dress," he sneers, but his voice is warm and he holds out his hand as if waiting for Florence to complete him. She takes it without question, sliding into his lap so that her thighs are pressed to the outside of his hips. The tips of his fingers drag up her quad, stopping short of her underwear before smoothly running back down her leg again. The motion makes her feel faint.

"No," she breathes, and flushes at how desperate her own voice sounds with so little prompting. "It's actually outside, but we can finish the tea first."

Tom's arm wraps around her waist so that he can hold her to him as he reaches for the pot, pouring her a cup and adding a splash of cream before handing her the saucer. He watches with strange fascination as she takes as sip, as if it is the most enchanting thing he has ever seen. His tongue darts between his lips, and Florence can feel the cool exhale of his breath raising goosebumps across her flesh.

"What?" Florence mumbles, desperate for him to break the heady gaze that is making her squirm with adrenaline and desire. Tom's eyes return to hers and fuck he is beautiful, capable of destroying her with only one look.

"In all this time you have been reading me the Iliad," he begins, and Florence feels a rumble of surprise pass through her. His voice is low and musical, like he is reciting words he has thought a thousand times. "I found it all very plausible except for one thing."

"What – the immortal gods directing human actions?"

"No," he smirks, pressing a finger to the underside of her cup so that she will drink again. "That one woman's beauty was enough to launch a thousand ships. I thought it so ridiculous, improbable, an overstatement of human weakness."

"Of course."

"But I understand now," he says evenly, and one of his hands runs up her side, his thumb brushing under the curve of her breast. Heat explodes where he touches her, and Florence must take a steadying breath.

"You stepped onto that balcony, and I was prepared to lead a thousand ships across the ocean or restructure the constellations for you if needed."

"Tom." Florence's mind is spinning, and she wants to kiss him almost as much as she wants him to continue talking, to say those words to her that he only finds the time for when his guard is down, when they are alone.

"But if you are Helen, that that makes me Menelaus, and I am not so weak willed as to let you escape." He sounds mutinous.

"Menelaus isn't weak, and besides, I have told you a thousand times that you are Achilles."

Tom frowns.

"Helen does not love Achilles, that does not match our tale."

Florence wants to laugh at his frustration but she knows his confusion is genuine, and any mockery of it will halt the conversation completely. Florence sets her tea upon the table, lacing her hands behind his neck and letting her thumb trace his hairline.

"Art imitates life, life does not imitate art, Tom. No matter how hard we might try, we can't perfectly mimic it," she says, leaning closer still so that she can smell the honey upon his breath. "You can be Achilles – brilliant and strong and capable – and I can be Helen, who…I don't know," she looks over his shoulder out the window, searching for the proper words. "Chases men across seas or something like that, and we can still be together."

"I do not understand," he replies, and his hands rest upon her hips, fingers pressing into the flesh of her backside.

"There's nothing to understand, it's just a story."

"But you said I was like him?"

"You are," Florence whispers, and she is frustrated in her inability to clarify, to give the young man in her arms the understanding from a childhood he had never had. How strange that he could comprehend the highest level of magical theory, and yet not this. How sad. "It is only a comparison."

"I don't want a comparison," Tom said, and his voice has taken on a sharp ring. "Had I been Menelaus, I would never have let you leave, and then I would have launched a thousand ships to claim Troy in your honor. He was weak, and a fool."

"He was just a human, Tom."

"Humans are weak."

Florence kisses him instead of answering, because she can and because she does not understand his sudden anger. His mouth opens to hers and she can taste the chamomile on his tongue, feel the sugar that sticks to his teeth. Tom's hands stray to her back, pulling her in and closer until she can hardly breathe, his fingers pulling at the pins in her hair until Florence's mane of caramel waves has been freed for Tom to comb his fingers through and pull upon.

Tom deepens the kiss, his mouth insistent against hers, nails digging into her ribs with slight pinpricks of pain. Florence feels a moan slither upward from her throat when his lips find her neck, traversing to her collarbone, finally landing upon her breast.

"What if I want this too?" He asks, his lips closing over a nipple, his tongue moving in ways that are unspeakable. Florence's eyes flutter closed, her hands knotting at the back of his head as if rooting herself to him. "As a part of my gift?" Her brain struggles to focus, mind overcome with pleasure as his mouth moves across her skin, hands continuing their exploration of every inch of her body. She knows what he is asking, and never once does she think of denying him – of denying herself.

Florence tugs on his hair so that his mouth releases from her chest. His gaze is hooded, curls riotous from the work of Florence's fingers, skin like molten silver in the moonlight. Everywhere her skin touches his burns, his jaw cutting the night air like a knife that she wants to cut herself upon. Florence feels that rising wave of inevitability within her, but for perhaps the first time, it does not reduce her to fear. Instead she smiles, leaning forward so that her lips hover over his.

"You can have this too – I am already yours."

Tom stands with Florence in his arms, pulling her towards her bedroom without a word, his face alight with wonder and desire alike in an expression so devastating that fire erupts throughout Florence's system. They clamber onto the bed and she laughs when he grabs her thighs and forces them open, smiling down at her from above like he has summitted a mountain or learned to fly. I love you she recalls saying, and she reaches for him, pulling his lips back to hers while those long, delicate fingers that have haunted her dreams for months make short work of her underwear, of his boxers.

They fit together as two humans were always meant to, like two parts of a whole rejoicing in their union with each meeting of their hips. Tom's face hovers above hers – resting upon his elbows so that he can see her every reaction, memorize the signs of her pleasure. Had Florence not been so overwhelmed with the desire that flowed through her, she might have been terrified by the triumph in his gaze, the absolute desperation in every line of his face for her and her alone. How could she ever meet the need she saw within him, how could anyone? And yet every time he moved his hips against hers, pleasure and pain simultaneously pouring through her body, Florence thinks only of how she wants to be the only person to reduce him to this wanton, quivering state

"Tom," she whispers, but it is guttural and boneless, and every nerve in her system is electricity. No one has ever touched her there, been inside of her in a way that is so intimate she feels as if her very soul was written upon her skin for his observation, and yet she feels not flayed alive, but upon display like a crown jewel. Tom's eyes flutter closed as his head tilts back, burying himself again until Florence cannot think. Ungodly beautiful she remembers, and he is, serious face shattered with ecstasy that only they can share.

"Florence," he groans, and his thumb finds where they are joined and she thinks nothing else except that she doesn't want him to stop, that she never wants to share this with another in her life.

Tom says her name again as he comes, and never before has she heard him sound so frail, so afraid.

Even long after they have both come and their breathing has returned to normal and Tom is once more soft, he does not pull away, remaining sheathed inside of Florence as his fingertips trace over her collarbone. Florence's arms wrap around his waist.

"Will you say it again?" Tom asks sometime later, at last rolling onto his side and severing the intimate connection of their bodies. Florence giggles like a schoolgirl at the request, but when she turns to see his face blank and wide as if he is asking for the moon itself, she stills.

"I love you."

The look his gives her is too intense, and she must bury herself in his shoulder, allowing their legs to tangle as he pulls the sheets over her body, trapping Florence against him. His arms snake around her, his chin pressed to her forehead, and with each breath she slips closer toward dreams.

"I do not know what that means."

Tom's voice reaches her as if from across the universe, small and tired and nothing like the young man she has come to revolve around, almost angry at his own inability to understand something. Something in her chest tightens in grief, and her lips find his chest.

"It's everything."

Sleep takes her before he has time to respond.

.

.

.

Florence wakes to an empty bed, the sky outside of her window one shade lighter than midnight – a few hours before a full sunrise. Her abdomen aches as she rolls onto her back, and lifting the sheets to stare down at her body, she can feel the dried slick between her legs, and she remembers.

Tom is pacing at the foot of her bed, his feet most certainly magically silenced so that he can move without waking her. Yet when the blankets settle once more around her, Florence finds that he has stilled, his eyes finding hers across the room, black and unknowable.

"Why are you up?" Florence asks, her hand stretching to touch the space he had occupied beside her upon the bed. Tom's face is like granite – unwavering.

"I was thinking."

"About what?"

"Something big," he says, the lines of his mask melting into his usual smirk as the roiling in his voice settles into something low and alluring. Florence feels herself smile at the old line between the two of them, and she flops back upon the pillows.

"I've been thinking," Florence says, holding out her hand to him. "That after we finish the Iliad, we have to find another book."

"I have plenty to recommend," Tom murmurs, his voice like velvet as he takes her hand.

"No, I don't want to read a textbook."

"How will you ever learn magic if you refuse to be challenged?" Tom asks, and although his face is serious, Florence laughs.

"That's what I have you for."

Tom smirks and takes a seat on the edge of the bed, Florence's hand still held in his own, his face illuminated by the pale light through the window.

"Will you show me the rest of my gift?" He asks, his eyes straying out past the horizon where Florence cannot follow.

"Greedy, aren't you?" She teases, but she sits up all the same, intent upon showing him what she had done.

"I want the world," he agrees, and Florence chooses to ignore the gravity in his voice, his tone far too cool to be misconstrued.

"It's in my trunk. Go and see."

Tom raises a brow at her, but complies after a moment, moving across the floor to the far side of the room. She watches with baited breath as he squats before the trunk, peeling open the lid and leaning forward to see inside. After a moment his entire body goes rigid.

"How did you transport this?" He asks, and Florence wonders if he is curious or impressed – or both.

"I had Lizzie place an undetectable extension charm on my trunk, and I had one of the house elves take it from your room."

Tom gets to his feet again, in his grasp is the Dittany sapling that is now nearly half his size. The small, round leaves glisten like fish scales, and she can smell the sharp, medical scent even across the room.

"I was under the impression that this was already mine," Tom says at last, his eyes finding hers through the branches. In some way she knows it is another challenge – to prove that she had the right to things that were his.

"I thought we could plant it here. I spoke it Illini while I was home, and she said it would be welcome on the edge of her copse."

"Plant it?" And Tom's voice is oddly hollow, as if she has pierced his side.

"I want part of you here with me, even when you're back in England," Florence admits, and it is possibly the most selfish thing she has ever said. Tom's Dittany tree rings with a magical signature that is entirely his own, and over the upcoming years when he is off traversing the world and gathering knowledge or teaching at Hogwarts, she wants to have some spot upon her estate that is entirely him. Tom nods his agreement, but if he is touched by the gesture, Florence cannot tell in the darkness.

They dress in the shadows, Florence offering Tom a pair of her jeans to transfigure while she pulls on her own pair. It takes all of her concentration to ignore the way his eyes follow her every moment, waiting until her body is fully clothed before ripping his eyes from her and tugging on his own clothing. Outside, the sky is a fraction lighter, the stars blinking out one by one.

"Shall we?" He asks, and Florence steps into his arms, allowing him to pull her away into apparition.

This time they reappear at the top of Illini's hill, the indistinguishable sounds of nature filling the void around them. Tom's arm stays around Florence as she reaches for the Dittany plant, breathing deeply of its metallic scent, her bare toes digging into the dirt beneath her feet. The world is still, and a onceover reveals that Illini is not present – most likely off hunting in the early hours of the morning.

"Over here," Florence points, dragging Tom to the side of the clearing where two fully grown oaks stood tall as sentinels. She did not want their tree beside pines who might one day grow to overshadow it, smothering the silvery-sage leaves with needles and sap – she wanted Tom's tree to grow alongside the most noble of specimens, and the two white oaks were ideal for her intentions.

"Will you get rid of the pot please?"

Without comment Tom taps the terracotta container, vanishing it so that Florence's fingers are digging instead into soil. She sets it upon the ground, eyeing its distance from the edge of the clearing, and thus satisfied with its room to grow, steps back.

"Would you like to do it, or shall I?" Florence asks.

"You," Tom says, and his eyes are gleaming. She smiles and nods, turning back to see the young tree shiver in the early morning breeze.

It is the same song, in fact the same words, that she used on Samhain. It rises from within her like the phrases were a portion of her very being, like her soul had been born to sing amongst the spirits. The air warms considerably as magic flows like currents of lava, free and driven and both within and without her, merging herself with the magic of the plant and the earth before Florence. With her eyes closed, she cannot see when the tree begins to take root, but through the soles of her feet she can feel the shivers of the land as the ground itself offers its resources to the tiny tree – as the Dittany shoots upward, trunk widening, leaves broadening beneath the final rays of moonlight. She can feel it, the slow steady pulse of life that makes her words catch in her throat because it is beautiful to share a moment of growth with magic itself.

When at last Florence's voice falls silent, she opens her eyes to find that the Dittany tree towers far above her, her body swaying as the final vestiges of external magic separate themselves from her own, leaving her exhausted upon her feet. Within seconds Tom is behind her, arms around her stomach, pressing her back against him so that her head falls upon his shoulder. His face finds its place buried in her neck. Florence smiles, relaxing into his grip.

"Thank you, Florence," he mumbles into her skin, his hand tightening on her stomach. She is too tired to realize it is the first time he has ever thanked her directly.

"Of course, angel," she coos, reaching up to pull on a stray curl. He smells like Firewhiskey and Dittany and something far more sinful, and the thought makes her smile.

A moment later, Florence's head falls back into full laughter when he lifts her off the ground, carrying her to the Dittany tree, pressing her into its bark. Her legs wrap around his hips, his lips finding hers as they mark this place as their own in a another way with a magic of another kind. It is older, arcane, an enchantment that requires nothing at all except to give yourself to another completely, and as their bodies slide into one, Florence knows without question she has.


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